On June 10, we celebrated BARDA’s 5th birthday. Five years ago, opening this restaurant felt reckless.
Not because I didn’t believe in the food. Not because I didn’t believe in the team. It felt reckless because restaurants are, by their nature, acts of faith. You invest years of your life, every dollar you can find, and every ounce of energy into something that may or may not survive.
Most people spend their lives trying to reduce uncertainty, but I’ve learned to embrace it. Sometimes, you don’t have a choice. Believe it or not, my career as a chef started with a motorcycle crash.
It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon in Buenos Aires. I was 22 years old and riding a bike with a friend. We were young, and we were going fast. Suddenly, we lost control of the motorbike and crashed against the rail on the highway. Both of us were without helmets (back then nobody wore them). In that moment, my friend tragically died, and I had severely injured both of my legs.
The doctors didn’t know if I would ever walk again. For three months, I was in a hospital bed with my legs suspended in a cast like a cartoon character. After that, they put me in a wheelchair, and it took me years to recover my legs.
As horrific as it was, the accident was a wakeup call. My friend had died, and I came close to never walking again. So I started to think, “What’s the meaning of life?” Back then, I had no real direction. I was aimless. But without my legs, I had nothing but time to think. And I had an epiphany: OK, so this can all end at any minute. What am I going to do with my life? What really makes me happy?
The answer: cooking.
I was nine years old the first time I cooked something. I made pasqualina, which is like an Italian quiche with spinach and ricotta cheese. As a child, the feeling of putting a savory pie in the oven was thrilling. I remembered that moment — how it made me feel. So after the accident, I looked for opportunities to cook whenever I could. People would gather at the house to play cards, and I would cook asado on the grill. Watching the flames dance underneath the red meat, I realized this is what made me happiest. I had embraced the fire.
There was only one problem: I didn’t know shit about cooking. So I went to culinary school and I staged at restaurants, working for free in exchange for the experience. I fell in love with the kitchen — the movements, the collective passion, the uncertainty of life.
I worked at Massey, run by Pablo Massey, who was one of the most famous chefs in Argentina. He was an alumni of Francis Mallmann (the No. 1 chef in Argentina). I learned so much from Chef Pablo, and through him, I got a job at Mallmann’s second restaurant, Patagonia Sur. While working for Mallmann, someone called me about hosting a TV show. Soon after, I was on a cooking show called Cena & Cine (Dinner and a Movie) in Argentina. This show was broadcast in all of Latin America. During these three years, the exposure was wild. I also started a family, and everything in life was happening fast.
I stepped out of the restaurant business because I had a growing family: my wife, Franca, and my two sons. But after some years, I started to feel restless. I needed to be back in the kitchen, back in the purifying fires of uncertainty. And I kept hearing about Detroit. Detroiters don’t realize this, but the rest of the world is talking about you. Every corner of the world recognizes what a unique opportunity Detroit is, how vibrant the people are, and how wonderfully artistic the city has become. So I moved here, and I opened BARDA. More uncertainty, but friends, I thrive on this. And you should, too.
I tell you this personal story as inspiration: Do it. Whatever it is. If you’re sitting there waiting for the right time, you’ll be waiting forever. The right time never appears. Never happens. The right time is whenever you decide to act.
So much of life is about motion. So just keep moving. Everything I do, I don’t actually know if I’ll succeed — nobody does — but if you’re moving toward your goals, that’s a step in the right direction. I know most of the ideas I have will fail, but failure is a lesson. It’s a part of that forward motion.
If you aren’t moving forward, that’s fear preventing it. And if you’re ruled by fear, you’re f****d.
So embrace the uncertainty instead. Moving to Detroit and opening BARDA was a huge risk. But here we are, five years later, stronger than ever. And what amazes me most is not that the restaurant survived, but it’s how many people chose to make it their own. Guests who became regulars. Team members who became family. Farmers, fishermen, winemakers, artists, neighbors, and friends who helped shape what BARDA is today.
Come celebrate five wonderfully reckless years of BARDA with us.
Always With Fire,
Javier
P.S. On June 30th, I'm collaborating with Grandma Bob’s for their Spread Dough pop-up. I’ll be there adding some BARDA-inspired toppings for their wonderful pizza — all for a good cause.
